


Of Ansaphone Messages & Snake Bites

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Annoyed Crowley (Good Omens), Ansaphone, Aziraphale Doesn't Understand How Answering Machines Work, Crowley Is Trying To Sleep, Fluff and Humor, Gen, No Slash, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Gabriel (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley Bites Aziraphale, answering machines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Crowley checks his messages, and replies in person. But summoning demons isn't always the smartest thing to do, particularly if you're an angel and you just can't seem to recall what it was you wanted...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Of Ansaphone Messages & Snake Bites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3Skydream3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3Skydream3/gifts).



_Of Ansaphone Messages & Snake Bites_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

The little red light was flashing on and off.

Frowning slightly to himself, Crowley yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes – he _had_ been trying to take a nap, only it hadn't been very relaxing, not with the phone ringing every five seconds – and pressed _play_.

The ansaphone clicked briefly, then began playing back messages.

 _Crowley! Crowley! Why are you making those incessant beeping noises? Is this your idea of a joke? You do this every time I –_ bugger! _– sorry about that, dear boy, a customer was being rude, now where was I? Hello? Crowley?_ Crowley _!_

The demon rolled his eyes. He had tried, many a time, to explain the finer points of an answering machine to Aziraphale, but the angel still didn't quite seem to get it most days.

_Hello, Crowley, it's me – what is it I'm meant to do with style again?_

Click.

The light was still flashing.

_What do you mean you're not in right now? I'm talking to you, aren't I? I've just telephoned you and you've told me twice you're probably asleep – and whatever it was about style._

A sobering, maddening thought crossed Crowley's mind, slow at first, then zooming madly and honking like a lorry in a hurry. " _Angel_ ," he muttered to himself, glancing coyly at the high number of messages. " _Tell_ me these aren't _all_ from you."

They weren't.

Technically, _one_ was Shadwell, asking for cash for his Witchfinder Army.

The rest were all, of course, one very confused angel who ran a bookshop and didn't know when to give up.

Crowley groaned as another message began playing.

_You sound laid back. How nice for you. Now if you would please stop saying the same things over and over again, and making those ridiculous noises, I have something I wanted to ask you. Crowley! Hello?_

"All right. _Fine_ ," sighed Crowley, reaching for his sunglasses and the keys to the Bentley – he supposed if whatever the angel had to tell him was _that_ bloody important he had better drag himself out of Mayfair and down to Soho so he could see what the big emergency was. "Whatever it is, I'm on my way."

Badness knew there weren't any discernable clues in the slew of messages which ranged from pathetic, to dithering and apologetic, to coldly angry.

* * *

Aziraphale had just closed the shop for the day, though he hadn't remembered to lock the door, and was easing down into the chair by his desk to read a very brittle, very ancient book with a worn, tooled cover. He was immediately absorbed in what he was reading and returned to the world at large rather dazed as the bells on the door jangled wildly and – in a _whoosh_ – there was a demon standing less than an inch away from his chair.

"Crowley," he said warmly, using his finger for a bookmark as he looked up. "Hello."

" _Hi_." His narrow chest heaved as he caught his breath. "What did you want?"

The angel blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Crowley huffed impatiently. "Earlier. You called me. Several times. What did you _want_?"

Aziraphale cast his mind back – coming up with nothing. He _had_ telephoned Crowley, _yes_ , and been rather frustrated with something or other, earlier – but that was before his book had arrived by post and had entirely consumed his thoughts from that point onward.

"Do you know, my dear fellow," he said blithely, "I simply don't recall."

"Right. That does it." Crowley began to stretch and lengthen, his features becoming more serpentine.

Aziraphale removed his beringed finger from between crackling pages and set the book down on his desk. "Oh, now, _really_ , you're not about to have one of your fits, are you? We've talked about this."

Now a long black snake with a red underbelly, Crowley was towering over Aziraphale's chair, hissing down at him, yellow eyes gleaming, ebony nostrils flared.

" _Er_ ," said Aziraphale, smiling shakily.

* * *

Aziraphale wished Gabriel hadn't noticed the two red dots on the back of his hand – it wasn't even anything major, scarcely a _nip_.

Except, now that it had come to his attention, the archangel was making a grand point of showing it to everyone in Heaven during their annual meeting.

"You should all," he was telling the other principalities, "strive to be more like Aziraphale here – look, he's still got wounds from his last battle with a demon." Gabriel gripped his plump wrist and jerked it upwards, waving it about, perhaps a little too roughly. " _This_ is an angel who takes our tireless fight against the forces of Hell seriously."

Aziraphale blushed furiously – positively pink from chin to hairline – as they clapped for him.

"Commendable," Gabriel assured him, letting him go and patting him hard on the back. "Very commendable, Aziraphale. Keep up the good work. We'll see you next time – keep yourself safe until then."

As he made his way down the escalator, the angel thought Crowley would find all this bother over his little play-bite rather amusing.

He decided to call him when he got back to the book shop.

"I do hope he doesn't make those beeping noises again," he muttered, shaking his head as he pushed his way through the revolving glass door. "I don't _like_ when he does that.

"If he does _that_ , I'm hanging up and calling right back."


End file.
